


The Day Batman Saw the Joke

by orphan_account



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: A Batman who laughs, Bad End AU, Bloodplay, Canon typical terribleness, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Knifeplay, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Porn with Feelings, erotic asphyxiation, joker pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-17 00:26:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12353625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Joker will always remember the day the Bat broke, not because it killed him but because it finally bought them closer. The Bat was his soulmate, the night of his life and he loved the madness of the Bat more then he loved himself.A joker centered what-if based around a Batman who Laughs.





	The Day Batman Saw the Joke

It was a common misconception that he hated the Bat; it was misconception that he loved him too. Love, hate, these words were too tainted by the mouth of boring humdrum boring people to fit them.

His insanity was so beautiful. The Joker had seen many different shades of insanity in his Arkham playmates but none of them could match what he saw in the Batman’s eyes. He glowed with it, no, wait, he _anti-_ glowed. His skin seeped his surroundings in shadows, making everything darker for his presence. Yes, that was what it was.

The Joker hadn’t seen so powerful and intense an insanity outside of his own eyes in the mirror. So much potential, so much raw chaos kept carefully caged.

Not that he would never admit it to those two-bit quacks but he saw himself in the Bat; he was trapped as the Joker had been by the shackles of sanity. Like a bird born in its shell he was kept trapped, twisted and deprived of the space to grow into who he truly was. It was sad but also romantic. The Bat’s better half was there like a fairy-tale princess, waiting for his clown to rescue him from the prison of sanity.

Joker vowed he would save the Batman. After so many years of being neglected and abused the Bat’s real self has someone to set him free. The Joker wouldn’t let him go.

He was getting through to him. He could see it in the stern darkness in the Bat’s eyes when he told a joke that made the real Bat laugh. In every fist that drew blood and knocked out teeth he saw that prisoner stretching out his hand towards him. The Bat wanted to be rescued.

So he chipped away at that prison. The sanity of most people was a minimum-security cell. The Bat’s head was the kind of prison Arkham wanted to be in its most delusional fever dreams, but there would never be a prison the Joker couldn’t break. Both Joker and the real Bat knew that. He might pretend at control and delayed gratification but he loves the game. It was waving the keys in front of the prisoner, daring him to break free so he could take pleasure in denying him and the prisoner…the prisoner whispered. The Joker could see it every time the Bat chose not to save someone, every time he put a killer in the cell of the monster they created, every time he made a joke for them to share. He could see the prisoner craving the bloodshed and the warden wanting the game to continue no matter how the bodies piled up and they were slowly slipping into each other and becoming the same person. Soon…soon my Bat you’ll swallow him all up and then you’ll finally be free.

The warden Bats wanted to put the Joker in prison, not in the physical sense which didn’t count, but he wanted to put that prison called sanity in the Joker’s head so he could lock away everything that made him fun. Joker didn’t know what would be left if he did, maybe just an empty skin, maybe nothing at all.

That was their cat and mouse; him chipping away and the Bat trying to build walls around them both. He didn’t despair, even when the frustration started driving him sane, because he knew that in time he would break through. The Bat was his soulmate, the night of his life and he loved that insanity more than he loved himself. The warden part of Bats had to go; whether it was him or Batsy’s better half that killed him or if he gave up and went crazy didn’t matter to the Joker. Either way he would have won.

He never thought he’d live to see the day. Not that he had any doubts he would eventually break out the Bat, no, he knew that if he persisted then that cage would crack and let all that glorious chaos free. It simply seemed inevitable that Bats final tumble off his high horse would start with his death. Then he would fester like a tumour at the back of Batsy’s skull, somewhere where he could chip, chip away where he couldn’t be stopped. He’d rot away his sanity from the inside until the Bat’s better half was strong enough to break free. It would be glorious but he hadn’t expected to live to see it, or not in the way boring ordinary people thought of living.

But he does.

The Joker wishes he got to see the Bat die. With his own two eyes, he wanted to watch that stubborn, irritating light of hope in his eyes die and the tension fade from his muscled frame in the genesis of a genocide. The Joker wants to see the event horizon of despair swallow him whole and leave the Bat completely, irreversibly mad. He can picture it, the moment the Bat saw the Joke, where he gave up on his denial that they were so different and his first faltering laughs drift over the rooftops.

He wishes he could have gone through the camera networks beforehand. He was sure to find one that let him see that glorious moment the Bat really went batty; he already hacked the Batcave when he wanted to see how much the Bat really obsessed over him. He wishes he could have seen the look in his eyes when the real Bats tasted sweet freedom for the first time. It would have been worth dying to be there when Batman saw the Joke. It was a tiny sour note floating on the river of sweetness that was the moment, like a lemon wedge in a chocolate river.

It is raining outside, just like it had been for his own awakening. The Batman melts from the shadows of the abandoned warehouse as if the city itself had given birth to him fully grown. Even the Joker couldn’t tell if that was tears or rain on the cowl. His boots are silent on the concrete floor. He moves like a nightmare and it is beautiful.

No-one had ever looked better in black but that festive and undoubtedly fatal spray of blood makes the Joker blush. A touch of colour was just what the Bat needed to lighten up his gloomy wardrobe. The Joker is delighted to see red and black were his real colours. For a moment, he feels a stab of jealousy for the corpse that got to see the new Bat before he did, but that jaunty asymmetric pattern was far too beautiful to be happy accident. Batsy all gussied up to see little ol’ him? He was already hard!

Oh, his smile is like a slice of moonlight. He knew it would be beautiful. Oh, oh, it was so much more beautiful than he dreamed.

He was here now, his monster, his other half, his Bat. Joker had saved him. He was free.

The Bat half collapses, half pounces on him. The spray of red rubs into the Joker's suit and into his skin. The Bat nuzzles against the Joker’s pale neck and the clown feels hot breath against his ear.

“I see the joke.” The Bat whispers to him.

His voice is rough just like every other part of him was rough. Rough angles, as sharp as the knives he taped to his arms. That was his Bat.

The Bat’s fingers comb through the Joker’s green hair. The new clawed gauntlets open thin wounds too fine to bleed. So tender. So loving. It was gratitude for freeing him.

“You were right. It is funny.”

Then the Bat laughs.

Maybe it was just the cowboy movie watching romantic in him but the Bat's laugh makes Joker think of sunsets and whiskey and cigars. It’s like warm syrup being poured in his ear. It flows through him and turns his insides to warm cake frosting. The Bat slips his leg between the Joker’s thighs and Joker grinds his hips against it, desiring the greater stimulation the Bat was promising.

His Bat was here and they were laughing together, a duet of the damned rising into the still night air. Nothing else mattered in the world. When Bats kisses him it just added to his pleasure. Batsy’s mouth doesn’t taste like Joker’s own personal cocktail of acid and fear and chemical death. It tastes of blood. The Joker explores with his tongue and finds the blood doesn’t belong to the Bat.

The Joker wasn’t expecting them to be consummating their relationship in this way, even after years of flirting. How fun! It spun back around to being a surprise. He appreciates the irony of the situation.

His Bat’s sexuality got bundled up with his brutality, his sadism and his bloodlust in that prison of his own head. The Bat hadn’t want it to be known his true self was as in love with the Joker as Joker was with him. As if he could hide that carnage got him harder faster than the cat's pussy. Wasn’t it hilarious? Didn’t you just want to laugh?

The Bat presses his thumbs into the corner of the Joker’s mouth and stretched out his grin. The gauntlet’s knife edges scored a ruby red line down his pale cheeks. Sweetheart. What a romantic. The Joker licks the wound to irritate it into bleeding more. The blood outlines his new smile in bright red. His smile was dripping past his ears and pooling in his hair. It would scar beautifully in a jagged twisted line, a permanent reminder of their moment of passion, if he lives that long.

The Joker returns the favour by biting off a chunk of the Bat’s bottom lip so their blood can intermingle. He presses the wounds together so they are bleeding into each other. You are under my skin Bats, and I am under yours. Bats smiles and the blood smeared over his lips gives him a perfect matching grin. It looks divine.

What better proof could there be that they were supposed to be together? Their madness matched.

“No more masks.” The Joker whispers past the blood. “You don’t need it anymore.”

The duller lunatics obsess over who was Batman really under the mask. Batman _was_ Batman, one thing, whole and complete. It was blasphemy to say otherwise. As if taking off the mask removes his power and makes him an ordinary man, instead of Batman without a mask. He is Batman without it and a bird putting it on doesn’t make them the Bat. The mask was just what he wore so he could excuse acting like himself. Now he had outgrown it.

The cowl now seems childish and out of place. It belonged to a Batman that is dead. That is funny. Wearing a dead man’s face is a laugh, but the Joker knows there was something under it that he hasn’t seen before. A whole new Batsy wrapped up in his old skin like a delightful present he couldn’t wait to unwrap. His fingers itch.

The Bat takes off the mask. The Joker barely notices. The face underneath is so clearly the Bat’s he doesn’t need the cowl to look like himself anymore. The mask has melted back into his skin and now he never has to take it off...

“See? You don’t need all that to look like yourself.” Joker mumbles through the mouthful of blood. “Just a bit of colour around your eyes.”

The Joker raises his hand from the Bat’s bloodied chest and swipes his fingers around the Bat’s eyes. The Bat chuckles.

“Colour.”

“Just a touch.” The Joker tells him. “Red suits you.”

The Bat considers it. The trickling blood streaks bat wings down his cheek.

“It really makes your eyes pop.” Joker licks his bloodied lips. “You have beautiful eyes you know.” He could see the darkness in them waving back.

“You’ve mentioned it before.” The Bat laughs and nuzzles against him. “Your eyes are beautiful too.” He purrs in the Joker’s ear. Oh yes Baby, do that again!

“My Batsy, was that a genuine compliment from you?” The Joker flutters his eyelashes. “You’re making me blush.”

“I mean it.” The Bat says in his husky whisper. “When I look into them I can see the void looking back.”

That sends an electric shiver down the clown’s spine and his shoulders shake as he starts to laugh. Tears trickle down his cheeks. He can’t stop it. It’s all perfect, it’s too perfect.

“That is the most romantic thing I have ever heard.” He chuckles.

“You know I’m a sap for you.” Bats nips at his neck. His teeth break the skin and blood oozes down the Joker’s neck like a vampire cartoon.

The Bat’s fingers slip under the suit and grip a bony hip. A giddy giggle climbs up the Joker’s throat like a rabid squirrel as something hard presses against his thigh.

“Is that a knife in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” The Joker giggles.

The Bat presses a kiss to the bleeding neck wound.

“What do you think?” He asks.

“Both?” Joker asks back.

“Both.” The Bat confirms and stabs him.

The Batarang cuts a neat triangle of flesh out of his shoulder, same as the dozens of identical wounds the Bat had left on his body with the same weapon. It sticks in deep. The Joker giggles and the sound cuts off with a hot gasp as the Bat wriggles the blade in the wound. His back arches. That’s it Batsy, scratch my bones!

The Bat licks a dribble of blood from the Joker’s lip. His hands are dipping lower now, sparking a fire deep in the Joker’s stomach. The purple suit is slipped from his thighs as the Bat’s gloved hands cup him. The Bat is as hard he is, he can feel it. Warm bodies pressing together and warm blood running down his neck, it’s everything he’d dreamed it would be. The Bat tugs down The Joker’s pants. Under the well-tailored purple fabric his white boxers are covered in tiny red hearts.

“Ah.” The Joker’s knife leaps to his hand. “Your turn Lover.”

The blade is his ever-present friend, specially made to slit up the Bat, no matter what he was wearing. The Joker stabs him right over the heart and the suit parts as easily as the skin. The Joker stabs again then adds a curved slash to turn the wound into a smiley face. The Bat’s blood runs down the length of the blade, turning the silver to a shimmering red. The Joker raises it to his lips and sucks the blood off it. The blade is poisoned, naturally, but both he and his Bat have enough poison in their veins already. The poison and their blood are old friends.

“Looking good.” The Joker’s acid green eyes slip downwards to the bulge in the Bat’s suit. “So…boxers or briefs? Or are you going commando.”

The Bat smiles a wry smile and slips his torn suit down past his waist. Against the dark cloth his unashamed arousal nearly glows. The Joker inhales sharply.

“Hello Big Boy.”

The Bat wraps his hands around the Joker’s throat and squeezes, cutting him off before he can make any dick jokes. That’s the boring old Bat he remembered. Even seeing the joke hasn’t made his Bat more talkative. Pity. Oh well, the Joker supposes that most of his bits need a straight man. Ironically.

Then the Bat’s fingers tighten a notch to that sweet spot where his vision twangs like a bowstring and his objections fly away. This wasn’t about keeping him quiet, this was the Bat’s pure sadistic pleasure to see him in pain. That little delay, the Bat was deliberately raising doubts just so he could destroy them. It was the Bat’s way of reassuring him the old Bats was dead for good. This Bat won’t hold back from killing him. I’ll never doubt you again my love!

The Joker wonders if he is going to die. Oh, but what a way to bite the big one; death by strangulation with a massive erection and the Bat mounting him like a wild animal.

His heart is drumming an up-tempo beat on the inside of his ribs. His skinny chest rises and falls rapidly as his oxygen starved lungs burn. The knife drops from his fingers as the Bat leans in. Joker leans in the rest of the way, making his vision go entirely black, so he can press his lips against the Bat. He flops back onto the ground and tries to stop his eyes from rolling back in his head. He wants to look the Bat right in his baby blues while the Bat fucks him.

The Joker feels a laugh trapped in his throat by the Bat’s hands. He tries to force the laugh past the Bat’s fingers but it gets stuck in a pathetic gurgle.

“Finally, something shuts you up.” The Bat thrusts in without any further preparation.

What blissful agony, what agonizing bliss. The Joker’s insides are on fire and he loves it. He wishes he could bottle this moment up and keep it forever but he is adrift on a hazy sea of sensation. Pleasure and pain bleed together. His consciousness ebbs, fading away until the wave of pleasure comes rolling in at the peak of the Bat’s thrust and shocks his body into sensation. He loses track of time passing. His limbs are numb and he feels like all that is left is his spine and head, like the string of a helium balloon in the hands of a clumsy child.

His Bat has such beautiful eyes…All he can see is darkness in which gleam two sparks of blue, colder than ice and more beautiful than moonlight.

Then the wave breaks over him and the darkness closes in all the way.

The Joker returns to consciousness like a drowning man surfacing, to his surprise. He thought for sure the child was going to let go of the balloon and he would float away from Gotham and his Bat forever. His torn-edged mouth gapes serpentine wide as he gasps for air. With each gasp for air his vision returns. The Joker rolls over onto his stomach so the pooled blood and saliva streams from his mouth as he draws in breath after deep greedy breath of sweet, sweet oxygen. His entire body aches from the Bat’s rough loving; everything below his waist is an amorphous ball of pain. No doubt the Bat hadn’t stopped after his partner had passed out.

“Hold still.” The Bat orders and grabs a bottle from his belt with one hand and tilts the Joker’s head up with the other.

Joker blows him a kiss.

The Bat empties the whole bottle onto his face.

It burns like acid and the Joker’s back arches. His teeth clench tightly together to stifle the scream. The Bat laughs. The Joker rolls over with murder in his eyes. He raises a hand to his cheek, expecting to find his teeth melting and touching only bloody, intact flesh. An antiseptic. He laughs too and they are laughing together, just the two of them.

The Bat buries his head in the crook of the Joker’s neck. His strong arms constrict like pythons around the skinny clown. The heat of tears speckles the Joker’s shoulder. The Bat seeks comfort in the arms of his greatest enemy, but an enemy for so long he was the closest thing he had to a friend left, and the Joker gives it. Being born was painful, he knew that, but the pain would fade with time. He strokes the Bat’s hair as laughing and crying bleed together into a crescendo of despair that rose above the burning rooftops and melts into the sirens and screams of the world coming to an end.

Slowly, oh so slowly, the tears stop. The Bat draws back and the Joker sees the trail they’ve cut through the drying blood. The ruby red is drying to a dull almost black.

“You didn’t kill me.” The Joker whispers.

“The French would disagree.” The Bat points out the stain of white on the purple suit.

The corners of the Joker’s mouth twitch in what was for him a rare show of self-control.

“I’ve thought about how I’m going to do it; break your neck, slit your throat, smash your skull, to start with.” The Bat tells him. “But without you who would bring a sparkle into my life? I’ll kill you when you’re boring.”

The Joker nods. It’s how he wants to go.

“What do we do now?” The Clown asks him.

And what was there?

His life had been the Bat for so long, so very long, and now the Bat was here in his arms and he doesn’t know what to do with his life anymore. The world is like a wound. So, like he always did when the world overwhelmed him, he went to the Bat. Harley, dear Harley, she didn’t understand him, though she tried so hard it hurt to watch. His Bat was the only one who understood. The world made sense when they were together.

“We honeymoon.” The Bat tells him. "Make a big announcement of it, pick up some new clothes, let the world know that Gotham is ours and always will be. But first we should probably get out of here."

"Hm?" The Joker hums the question.

"I've rigged the building to explode." The Bat tells him.

The Bat smiles and the Joker laughs.


End file.
